Sketches and Shadows

Clara Bennett-Ronan had always lived in color.

Not just the kind that bled from her brush onto canvas, but the kind that clung to moments—sunlight pouring through the skylight in her mother's art studio, the deep green of the pitch where her father coached, the indigo Parisian nights when the city hummed just for her.

But today, everything felt muted.

Gray.

She stared out the window of her literature class, her fingers smudged with graphite, her sketchpad half-filled with the faces of people who didn't know she was watching them. A yawning student. A couple kissing at the back. The professor, mid-gesture, chalk dust in his hair.

She didn't want to be here.

Not because she hated school—she was a straight-A student, mostly. But because something inside her had started itching weeks ago. A creative restlessness. A question with no name.

Her phone buzzed once in her bag. A message from her best friend, Lou:

heard about the new guy? transfer student. photography prodigy. dark, tragic eyes. v tall. your type lol.

Clara rolled her eyes, then smiled. Lou knew her too well.

She glanced at the clock. Five more minutes. Five minutes until she could walk down to the art wing, lock herself in a studio, and breathe again.

Because even though everyone saw her as the confident one—the girl with the cool artist mom and the ex-footballer dad and the perfect little Parisian life—Clara often felt like a collection of unfinished sketches.

Not quite her mother's legacy.

Not quite her father's fire.

Just… somewhere in between.

The Art Studio – After Class

The studio was her sanctuary.

She kicked off her boots, threw on her oversized paint hoodie, and pulled the tarp off her easel. Her newest canvas sat half-finished: a girl curled in the middle of a black-and-white forest, with stars stitched into her hair.

She dipped her brush into crimson and stared at it for a long time.

What was missing?

A knock came from the doorway. Soft, hesitant.

She turned.

And for a second, she thought someone had painted a boy into her life with charcoal lines and shadows.

Dark curls fell across his forehead, his eyes a stormy gray, camera slung around his neck like armor. He leaned in the doorway like he didn't plan on staying long—but also like he'd seen the room in a dream before.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry. I didn't know anyone would be here."

Clara raised a brow. "This is my assigned slot."

He blinked. "I'm the new transfer. Photography program. They said I could use the light in here."

She gestured toward the skylight. "Best light in the school. They're not wrong."

He stepped inside, hesitantly. "I'm Lucien."

"Clara," she said. "You're the one with the tragic eyes."

He looked startled, then smirked. "You've been talking to people."

"My best friend. She has a radar for boys who look like French poetry."

He gave a soft laugh. "Is that a compliment?"

Clara tilted her head. "I guess we'll find out."

They stood in silence for a beat. She returned to her canvas. He lifted his camera.

"I'm not a fan of being photographed while I'm working," she said.

"I wasn't photographing you," he replied. "I was photographing the light falling on your painting."

She turned. "And what does the light say?"

Lucien lowered the camera. "It says the girl in the forest wants to escape, but she's not sure if the stars will follow her."

Clara's breath caught. No one had ever described her work like that.

"Maybe she doesn't want them to follow," she whispered.

"Maybe she doesn't have a choice."

They stood there, not quite smiling. Not quite sure what had just passed between them.

But something had shifted.

And Clara knew—deep in her artist's gut—that Lucien wasn't just another student.

He was a question she hadn't drawn yet.

Later That Night – Home

Aria watched Clara wash the paint off her hands with a softness in her expression only a mother could wear.

"She's thinking," Aria murmured as she stood in the kitchen with Ronan.

He glanced up from the stove. "Thinking or plotting?"

Aria sipped her wine. "She met someone today."

"Oh?"

"New transfer. Photography student. Quiet. Pretty eyes."

Ronan tensed slightly. "Has he spoken words to her?"

"Yes."

"Full sentences?"

"Yes, Ronan."

"I'll Google him."

Aria rolled her eyes but smiled. "Let her sketch her own story."

Ronan looked toward the hallway. "As long as he doesn't break the girl who rebuilt me."